Forging the Runes Read Free Page A

man, left, right, left again, trying to find an opening in that cursed iron mail. He didn't dare glance away again, but a part of his mind noted that it wasn't very long since the matter of the late, villainous Gervinus; Aedh was probably delighted to be fighting a battle that didn't involve sorcery.
    No need to worry about the king, at any rate. Even if Aedh hadn't been so fine a warrior, Ardagh knew that at his side was Cadwal ap Dyfri; no joy of battle in Cadwal, only a grim and very professional efficiency that had kept the man alive so long.
    It's his job, keep the king safe. Does it well, too. It's not my job though, and—
    Suddenly his hair, admittedly far too long for battle, tore free from its thong, sending a black wave across Ardagh's face, nearly blinding him. He sprang back, clawing frantically at the strands with his free hand to clear his sight, struggling to parry at the same time, just barely managing both.
    Damn and damn! It was sworn in the human tongue; the Sidhe language was too elegant for raw words. Still half-blinded by his own hair, Ardagh lunged savagely forward, driving his startled foe back and back again, hoping the human would slip on the wet, grassy slope. But now a second foe was trying to close with him as well. Ardagh sprang aside with inhuman speed, hearing the two humans crash into each other—and hopefully spitting each other on their weapons—only to find himself facing a new swordsman.
    He looks as worn as I feel. Fortunately.
    At least he'd finally gotten the hair out of his eyes. But without warning Ardagh felt the first blaze of iron-sickness burn through him. He staggered back, reminded—as though he really needed reminding—just how much of that cursed metal was around him. A small amount of iron was no problem, but there were limits—and his body had clearly just reached its. In another moment, Ardagh knew, he was going to have to flee or be ignominiously ill—and get himself killed during the latter. Did he care if the humans thought him a coward?
    Not a whit!
    Ardagh lunged to give himself room. The human drew back, expecting a charge, and Ardagh turned and fled the battlefield. His legs gave out halfway down the slope and he collapsed under a scraggly oak, struggling with nausea, struggling to draw new strength up from the native Power of the earth. If any stragglers found him here, helpless, he was dead. A stupid, stupid way for a prince of the Sidhe to die, even a prince who was, through no fault of his own save stubborn honor, trapped in exile in this human Realm.
    Ardagh looked up with a gasp, suddenly aware of someone standing over him, and saw King Aedh, his mail stained but not so much as dented, his face still fierce from battle.
    "Iron?" the king asked succinctly, too softly for any human to hear; Aedh knew his Sidhe guest's keen senses, and a disconcerting bit of his weaknesses as well.
    Ardagh nodded, but before he could say anything, Adeh added a curt, "You're lucky to be alive," and turned away, shouting commands to his men and his allies, working order on chaos by sheer force of voice and will.
    Victory, the prince thought. Of course victory. Finsneachta didn't have a chance.
    By ancient law, any king who'd been defeated—as Finsneachta of Leinster clearly had, could be deposed. But Aedh would hardly want to replace a known but at least temporarily cowed threat with an unknown, and possibly greater, menace; the High King, clever man that he was, had almost certainly already worked out some nicely convoluted treaty by which Finsneachta could keep at least a good part of his honor, and he—or at least his heir—could keep the throne. It would take some time to get the living sorted out into their respective royal armies, but soon enough everyone but the dead and the badly wounded would be riding back to their fortresses, and peace would once again fall over Eriu.
    For the moment. Ardagh rubbed a weary hand over his face. These humans were more volatile than